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And like the favourite urns of spring; its bells Held odours that the zephyrs dared not steal. And by the river was a maiden leant, With large dark eyes, whose melancholy light Seemed as born of deep thought which had gone through Full many a stage of human wretchedness,— Had known the anxious misery of love,— The sickness of the hope which pines and dies From many disappointments,—and the waste Of feelings in the gay and lighted hall;— But more, as knowledge grew but from report Than its own sad experience; for she loved The shelter of the quiet mountain valley, The shadow of the scented myrtle grove, And, more than all, the solitary bend, Hidden by cypresses, of her own river.— They called the nymph— L. E. L.